Once Upon a Time
by Cheria
Summary: Every person has a story. Waka, Himiko, Issun.


**(Waka) I'm sorry.**

Waka has never cried so much as a proverbial single tear; acquainted early on with the trauma of loss, but also blessed and cursed with divination, he's long steeled himself for reality. And with his senses dulled by the drifting time of the Plain, he's forgotten all feeling but calm.

When a demon devours a Celestial - head first, then the neck, shoulder, arms, and torso, all the while making a ruckus as the bones snapped and veins tore - he watches, stunned. He plays spectator to a gruesome murder, realizing only after the fact that he has failed to keep his promise to Amaterasu.

The demon lunges at him. On instinct, he cuts the creature down, but the blood of the Celestial from the earlier feast sprays his clothes and face.

Demons are not solitary entities. If there is one, there is more.

His fatal mistake dawns on him, and Waka's eyes widen. His grip on his sword tightens and he whips around on the balls of his heels. He makes a dash for the most populated area of the Ark, his heart throbbing and mind repeating a mantra:

Amaterasu.

Amaterasu.

_Amaterasu_.

* * *

It's frightening what little blood there is; even more, the total lack of leftover flesh. The Celestials have been devoured entirely, and no trace of them remains. Only what was once in their body, which is bound to be licked up and gone in a matter of hours, if not minutes.

Yami has erased all he's fought on the Ark for.

When the Ark crashes and spits him out, Waka flees, taking his battered body to safety.

His face is hot and probably red despite the harsh climate of Kamui. His body aches and screams in protest with every step he takes. His hands shake, fumbling to hold onto his sword as his heart weeps at the death of his charges. His mind tells him it was inevitable.

Every part of him cries and begs Amaterasu for forgiveness as he falls on his knees and collapses.

**(Himiko) Longevity.**

When Himiko is born, Nippon cheers. The Princess is born; a healthy babe and their future Empress, who will guide them along with her wisdom and heart.

Himiko is everything they wish from a ruler, aristocrats and commoners alike. Fair and benevolent, her choosing to mingle and know her subjects grants her the basic wisdom to dictate. She rather dislikes sitting in a guarded room, hidden from those she's meant to bring happiness. And everyone is all the better for her decision.

When she is alone, she's met by Rao or Waka.

She'd spend most of her breaks with Rao, discussing politics and Buddhism at their leisure. But talk of their jobs can be dull. Other times, they emulate better a duo of common children than one of their station.

When it's like this, and Nippon prospers, Himiko feels time is kind.

Waka, the cryptic man in her service, always shatters this delusion at the end of the day. _For all her wisdom, Her Majesty is a child, isn't she?_he would goad, but Himiko has learned to steel her sensitivity when Waka is concerned.

She would agree with him every opportunity, even once she's grown to adulthood and Waka hasn't aged a day.

* * *

Time seems to shatter when she notes the odd color of Rao's beads; more so when Himiko finds her a little colder than the norm. The aura Rao gives off is no longer pleasant or amicable, nor one she would lean to on a tired day as she once had.

One day, after an intense, awkward session of dull political talk, Rao excuses herself.

"Rao," Himiko calls.

Rao stops.

"Yes, Your Majesty?"

" . . . I am still a child, aren't I?"

* * *

Waka is not there to thrust reality in her face. He must have known that the world would deal its cruel hand.

Himiko sits in her guarded chambers. It is a sunny day and the streets are bustling, Rao had relayed, but the room is unbearably chilly and lonely.

**(Issun) Brushstroke.**

Issun has craved freedom since the beginning.

By the time he hits the sack every night, both of his hands are cramped, sometimes to the point of agony. There's never a day when he wakes without having to shake his exhausted hands alert, only for them to grab a brush again and set to work for perfection.

All he sees is a bunch of lines.

_Perfection? Heh! That's a pretty lengthy word, why don't ya shove it and have it paint for ya!?_

Scolded for giving his elders lip, Issun huffs and flees the village that night.

The outside world beyond Kamui proves more exciting than anything his home village could have provided him. Most of all, there are many a busty women for his eyes to feast on, and in general, the air feels cleaner; freer.

Sakuya recognizes what he is and humors his company, though he makes himself too comfortable in her robes. Whatever - this is life, freedom, and awesome. She's not hurling him down the road.

As a self-proclaimed wandering artist, Issun draws entirely of his own volition. This, he reminds himself, is far better than painting while he's looked at over his shoulder. The pressure is gone, and he can do whatever his little heart desires.

He waves his brush in the air, watching small blots of ink swatting left and forth from the motion.

His strokes have become noticeably more refined since his year long departure. Moreover, he no longer has the desire to grip the brush so tightly that he might threaten to snap it in half. He holds the body lightly, allowing his hand to guide it as the wind might carry a leaf.

But even now, when he lifts the brush and studies his finished work, he stares long and hard.

A smug smile nestles on his face as he lifts the scroll, declaring, "Is this a masterpiece or what?"

Yet a part of him doubts.

_Why isn't it perfect?_

* * *

**Authoress' Notes**: This was written for a friend's birthday. I'll admit that I'm more confident in writing Waka than Himiko or Issun, but I felt that I should try at the least. So there you go.


End file.
